


Metaphysics

by Molly



Series: Interiors [2]
Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Gen, ep-tag:TS.323-324.Sentinel2, gen - Freeform, sentinel, series:interiors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-09-21
Updated: 2008-09-21
Packaged: 2017-10-02 00:44:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Molly/pseuds/Molly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>In which Blair goes home after the events of Things Fall Apart and bullies Jim about the furniture. Also, in which much angst is resolved amid guyish ambiguity and bonding behavior.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Metaphysics

The engine ran loud. Jim had said something about the alternator a few weeks ago, but to Blair it just sounded like the idle might be set a little high; it revved too much at the red lights they were hitting one right after another. Jim had a system for every route home and he always caught the lights green, every time. Some kind of sentinel thing, Blair had joked once after another perfect ride, but Jim had just laughed and said no, it was an Ellison thing, some things were just about talent and skill.

The truck lurched wide through a narrow turn, nearly tossing Blair off the seat for the third time in as many starts. "Jesus, Simon," Blair said before he could stop himself. "Why didn't you bring your own car? Does Jim know you can't drive a truck?"

A dark glare was his reward as Simon yanked at the wheel savagely. "I can drive a truck," he said tightly, moving into the right lane and signaling for the turn onto Market. "It's this damn wheel. I know we pay him enough for something with power steering, I sign off on his salary myself."

"He says if he smashes this one up, it'll be cheaper to replace." Blair winced as the truck screeched to a halt behind a long, black Mercedes. In its rear-view mirror, Blair met a set of pretty eyes glaring with irritation. He held up his hands -- _I feel for you, ma'am, this man beside me makes a better captain than a car driver, but you know, you have really pretty eyes_ \-- then sighed with ill-concealed apathy when she didn't seem impressed. "On the other hand, if _you_ smash it up for him, that could work, too. You are insured, aren't you, Simon?"

Not a cop for nothing, Banks hadn't missed the by-play. "I see the Sandburg charm is as functional as it ever was. You losing your touch?"

"Abject terror puts me off my game, sir."

"Jim was kind enough to lend me his truck this afternoon while my car is being painted," Simon said. Blair could tell Simon wasn't buying into the brave little soldier act, but still felt warmed by an absurd degree of gratitude when his excuse was allowed to pass. "And yes, if you must know, he called the insurance company about it before he handed over the keys. I'm insured through five o'clock and I gotta tell you, I'm all warm and fuzzy from that display of trust."

"Painted? I thought the metallic chartreuse was really working for you."

"That mouth's going to get you in trouble some day."

The truth of that was such that Blair didn't even bother to reply. Silence was just as bad as talking these days, but it had the advantage of simplicity. He ignored the way Simon kept trying not to look at him, closed his eyes, and rested his head against the chill glass of the window.

He'd been one week in the hospital recovering from what he was referring to privately as stupidity-induced trauma, suffering through endless hours of television with Brown and Megan. When they could no longer focus on a set that apparently only picked up The X Files with an occasional signal fade into Viper, Rafe had stepped in to regale him with the details of every case to walk through the doors of Major Crime since dinosaurs ruled the earth. From Simon he'd learned the date and time of every major event of Daryl's life from birth to acne, and Joel...

Well, Joel had tried. He'd been pretty spooked by the whole pulse-free anthropologist scene, and he hadn't really been up for much conversation, so when it was Joel's shift, Blair did the talking. He told the big man about his time in Borneo, before he'd met Jim, and about the kids in his classes and how none of them knew how to write. He told him about the way he'd really just been marking time before he started his work at Major Crime, and about how that had made him feel like he was really doing something good with his life. He didn't mention Jim, but he also told Joel how things had started feeling different lately, and how maybe it was getting close to time for him to turn in his credentials and actually write his dissertation instead of just threatening to do it. How maybe it was time for him to move on.

He told Joel a lot more than he'd told anyone else, more even than Jim knew, and Joel just listened to him with deep, wise eyes and a solemn expression until he was done.

And then when he _was_ done, when he'd said everything he could say without giving away Jim's secret, Joel had just looked at him, kind of sad, and said, "You know? If I had a friendship like that, I wouldn't be so quick to blow it."

When he'd stood and left, Blair had just watched him, a tall black man in a grey suit that no longer fit quite right now that he took care of himself, walking like he was a hundred years old. Joel had no wife to go home to, no kids, just an empty apartment with cheap prints on the walls and cheap rugs on the floor and TV dinners in the fridge. When Blair had thought of the warm, close safety of the loft he'd let himself be thrown out of, he'd felt about two inches tall.

And he'd felt, no doubt as Joel had intended, like an idiot to the tenth decimal place. Sitting here now, still and silent in the cab of Jim's truck while Simon yanked at the wheel and cursed under his breath, he felt even worse. He felt like his life was falling apart, the pieces slipping away. One week since he'd seen Jim, one week since the fountain and the crazy vision he _knew_ they'd both had -- and not a word from Jim, not a call, not even get-well card. It hurt, and it sped his heart with panic, and there was no one to _hear_ it.

There hadn't been for days.

The last scene was painted so clearly in Blair's mind. Jim had held onto him like grim death -- only tighter, because that round went to the good guys -- like he might vanish any second. He'd looked at Blair with this crazy intensity that was almost frightening. The sky above had been bright and clear and blue, and the air sweet, and the sound of the fountain had fit right in with the sound of a far-off, rushing river.

He was pretty sure that sound was going to be with him forever.

A few words had passed between them, he couldn't even remember what they were. They were less important than being there with Jim, being alive and well and whole, for the very first time in memory. After that everything was hazy, sirens and lights and way too many needles. He'd been tested and prodded and X-Rayed and scanned and told to hold still more often than anyone should ever have to bear.

Through it all he'd listened for Jim's voice, waited for him to burst through the emergency room doors like some kind of reckless avenger, demanding to know what was being done to his partner and by whom and to what purpose. He'd waited, and he'd joked with Dr. Roberts about better places to take a swim, and finally he'd been wheeled off into a private room where he was attended by his coworkers and friends for one full week while his fever subsided and the antibiotics took effect.

And Jim never came, not once, never even called. If Blair had known him less, it might've hurt.

If Blair Sandburg knew anybody in the world, he knew Jim Ellison.

"Coward," Blair muttered, and opened his eyes. The hotel was just ahead; a cheap neon vacancy sign flashed pale in the daylight beneath a promise of free HBO in the rooms and a continental breakfast at the Denny's next door, half-price. They'd passed Prospect three blocks back.

"Excuse me?"

"Simon, turn around."

With very little grace, Simon repeated, "_Excuse_ me?"

He and Jim, their lives were linked now. That was the point of the dream, the vision, whatever it had been. He'd been dead, and Jim had brought him back so they could _be_ something together, and that was worth fighting for -- whether Jim Ellison wanted it or not.

Blair smiled. It was easy this time. He was a little angry, a little hungry -- and determined.

"Turn around," Blair said again. The time was right, and he was listening to the river. "We're going the wrong way."

* * *

Johnny Murphy from #217 was a tough, burly seventeen-year-old with a future in football if he'd just start hitting the books. He'd been held back from play three times during the season when his geometry grade had dropped below passing; Blair had been helping him out when he could, and Johnny probably would've helped wrestle the furniture back upstairs for free. Still, Jim sent him on his way with a fresh, crisp twenty-dollar bill; he had it on hand, and he was reluctant, lately, to accept anything he hadn't paid for.

The loft was pretty thoroughly wrecked. He'd cleaned it out completely, moving things in a wild heat of speed and efficiency that had left his muscles aching for days. Blair's...the room that had been Sandburg's was the one he'd emptied first, thinking maybe that would be enough, but the walls had kept closing in and he'd moved on to the living room. The sofas, the coffee table, the TV and the rugs, the sound system and the dining table and the arm chairs and all of it, everything, right down to the silverware. He'd made so many trips he'd stopped counting; paring it all down, needing cold, clear, empty air to breathe.

Even the potted plants Blair had tended with such occasional intensity had had to go. That was what, for days, had passed for sanity. Now it was all back, and he stood in the middle of it like a stranger, and he couldn't think very clearly and he couldn't remember where anything went.

He started anyway.

It felt good to work hard, and he put his back into it. The physical labor worked like a shut-off switch for his brain, the comforting ache that burned in his thighs and shoulders driving out the deeper discomfort of thought. He didn't move fast, but he found a rhythm that carried him through the reconstruction of the living room. The couches went back to their original places, but he pulled the TV a little closer to them, at least as far as the cords would safely allow. Blair had started wearing his glasses when they sat on the couch and watched a game; you forgot sometimes that the kid was pushing thirty, and Jim knew what it was like to figure out that you couldn't quite see the page anymore because you'd never see twenty again. His senses had taken care of that little problem, but they didn't keep his knees from creaking in the morning and they didn't help when he started yawning halfway through a work shift.

There might not be a lot of shared ballgames -- for a _while_, Jim reminded himself -- but it made him feel better to fix things, just in case.

Looking over his work with a critical eye, Jim pulled off his Jags cap and wiped the sweat from above his eyes with the rolled-up sleeve of his flannel shirt. It wasn't perfect, it wasn't exactly as it had been, but that was probably okay. Nothing was going to be exactly as it had been, and the sooner he got used to that idea, the better off he would be.

It was the bed that gave him the most trouble. Blair's bed. It was the first thing he'd taken down and the last thing he'd brought up, and he couldn't just leave it in the living room. The logical, sensible thing to do would be to put it -- and the dresser, too, and the night stand, and that tall, empty pine bookcase -- put it all back where it'd been before. They were all grouped together next to the wall there, ready to be moved into the tiny room, but to go in, to really go in there and be in there...

He just couldn't do it. Not yet. If he went in there now he'd have to think about when he'd gone in there last, about taking Blair's things out of the dresser and the closet and putting them in boxes, putting all the books and papers in boxes and bringing them out into the living room and then pacing, waiting for him to come back and being so deeply afraid he wouldn't...

Which was what it was really all about, down below the waterline, underneath everything else. Fear-based. He had to hand it to the kid, he'd certainly nailed that one--

The pounding startled Jim half out of his skin, not so much because it rattled the door but because he knew who was waiting on the other side of it. It seemed like he knew a lot of things lately, as if his life had turned into a movie he'd already seen and all he had to do was sit back and let it run. There was a sense of some kind of conclusion coming, a long way off, one that wasn't going to be like any ending he'd ever thought of.

He was less scared of it now than he had been. Now that he knew the alternative, he wasn't really scared of it at all.

Jim ran a hand over the top of his head, and pulled the cap back on. He made sure all his shirt buttons were in their right holes, and opened the door.

* * *

For several long moments, Jim just stared. The kid looked -- really, really good.

He looked alive, mostly, and everything else was gravy, but everything else, that looked pretty decent, too. Jim searched his mind for a word that fit, and all he could come up with was 'rested'. Somebody'd been feeding him, and doing a good job of it. It bothered Jim that he didn't know who, and then it bothered him that he was bothered. He'd sworn off that possessive shit and it was way too soon to be cutting corners on that kind of promise. He'd stayed away to get a handle on that kind of thing, and he wasn't about to waste that week of worry.

"Jim Ellison, right?" Nothing even remotely like emotion was making it past Blair's eyes, but Jim could feel it anyway, something uncompromisingly warm just under the chill. Blair was trying to hide it, but it was still there.

It was still _there_.

Blair's mood wasn't improved by Jim's silence. "The face is _vaguely_ familiar," he said. "You planning to keep me standing here till I'm too old to care, or let me in like you had some manners?"

Jim couldn't help it. He had the good sense to duck his head -- he could tell he was blushing a little -- but he was fighting the grin that wouldn't die, and it was a losing battle from the start.

"Come on in," he said, stepping back. "I'm, uh..."

"Yeah," Blair said. "I can see that." He moved past Jim, and stopped just short of the living room rug, hands on his hips. His eyes skated over everything, touching but not pausing, like he was running some kind of internal inventory. "Somebody's going to trip over those wires," he observed, nodding his head toward the television.

Jim nodded too, following Blair's line of sight as if the television were the most fascinating thing in the universe. "Easier for people to see there, though. From the couch." Jim tried to laugh, but it came out more like a bark. "Don't get many sentinels dropping by."

Blair shot him a disgusted look, shaking his head. "Your TV, man."

"I think I'll move it back a little." Jim went over to the set and looked down at it, thinking that he actually kind of liked it where it was, wondering what they were really talking about. He didn't think it had a lot to do with TV sets and deadly cords.

He was still thinking when Blair walked over to stand beside him.

His partner was breathing deeply, and maybe just a little fast. He didn't say anything at first, just stood there beside Jim, almost close enough to touch.

When he did speak, his voice was decidedly casual. "Need some help?"

"No, I--" Jim stopped. Took a deep breath, started again. "Well, yeah, okay. Get that corner, will you?"

Together, and without further comment, they did the lifting a boy could've done, shifting stand and set back about a foot and a half. They didn't touch, not even accidentally.

Standing back, Jim and Blair examined the new placement with much more care than it deserved. Jim picked up the remote and turned the set on, keeping the sound low.

"What do you think?" he said, eyeing the set critically.

"I think we've taken the furniture conversation about as far as it's going to go. Don't you?" Blair didn't look up at Jim, just stared as Steve Young took a helmet to the ribs on the fifty-yard line.

Jim shook his head, then blurted out: "What is that you're wearing?"

It was quite a get-up; the ripped jeans were obviously Blair's, but the t-shirt was unfamiliar and had lost a war with a paintbrush at some point in its long-gone youth. It was orange, and underneath a picture of John-somebody it said, "Planet Ten or Bust!" Over that he wore a kind of olive-ish plaid flannel button-down that wasn't and that hung halfway to his knees, an over _that_, a short suede jacket Jim felt sure he'd seen Megan wearing around the station.

"Major Crime's answer to Goodwill," Blair said, looking down at himself with concern. "I know the jacket's a bit much, but--"

"It works for Megan," Jim said diplomatically. He shifted uncomfortably as the tag at the back of his own t-shirt -- plain old blue under the green plaid button-down -- scratched at his neck. He felt disconcertingly normal, and for the first time it occurred to him to wonder if Blair dressed like that on purpose. To make the people around him feel less weird by contrast.

It would be a typically Sandburg thing to do. "Why aren't you wearing your own clothes?"

"Apparently, while Alex was paying me a visit to grab my notes and put an end to my short but illustrious career, her partner was visiting my hotel room for the same purpose. He burned the place. Only other set of clothes I had -- well. I kind of drowned in them."

"I knew that. I mean, I knew somebody obviously working with Alex torched your room and took some notebooks. Simon told me." Jim looked up at the ceiling, scratching distractedly at the back of his neck. "He, ah. He's not letting me work the case."

"No kidding, really? I wonder why."

"Because I went a little psychotic for a few hours, and--"

Blair grinned, the first real humor Jim had seen since his friend arrived. "Rhetorical question, man."

Jim nodded, and took his cap off. Fidgeted with the snap at the back, put it back on, and looked out the window to the balcony. All in all, the conversation didn't seem to be going very well.

It was a good day outside; that sobered him, took away a little of his certainty that things were going to work out. Jim hoped the clear day was some kind of an omen, but he wasn't going to count on it. There was sunlight now, sure, and Blair was back in the loft and that was great, but there had been sunlight on _that_ day, too. Bright and brassy sunlight; it had reflected off the water shooting up out of that fountain.

Jim wasn't ready to put any faith in good days, but maybe he could just put his faith in Blair standing across the room from him, looking out of sorts. It had a comfortable, familiar feel to it, and Jim caught himself starting to grin all over again. He felt a twinge of associated guilt -- not quite fair to be happy about the kid being off-center -- but it just felt so damn _normal_ that Jim was sure he could bear up under it. He shut himself down, put on a serious face and pointed it out the balcony windows.

Whitecaps on the bay. Good day for sailing, maybe, if a guy dressed for the chill and knew what he was doing. In the distance, if he listened closely, there were birds. Lots of birds. Tiny specks against the sky, white. Gulls?

"Jim," Blair said, his voice cast just so.

"I'm not zoning," Jim answered. But he'd been just about to, and it would've been the first time since that day.

"You need to sit down, man."

"I'm fine--"

Blair nodded, and stood still. It was a stillness that thrummed. "I need you to sit down," he said slowly, "because I have some things to tell you and Simon is waiting for me downstairs in your truck."

Hands were still, too, even as Blair started to move again. Jim tensed, getting skittish just out of sympathy. "I could sit," he said, and he did. It was easier to watch Blair pace from the couch.

It was a revelation, seeing the hitch to his step the doctors said would fade as he got used to walking around again. He looked like he'd fall over if Jim breathed too hard near him. He'd seen his partner thinner and he'd seen him a hell of a lot more tired than this, but he'd never seen him _fragile_. Even now that wasn't quite the right word, because he still looked strong and there was this determination shining out of him still, like even if Jim did breathe too hard Blair would stay standing out of sheer irritation and willpower.

But mostly irritation, Jim decided, noting the set of Blair's mouth and the pallor that couldn't be totally explained away by a slow recovery. The man was _pissed_.

"Blair," Jim ventured, not quite sure how to broach the subject but not sure he could help himself. "Are you sure you're okay enough to be so..."

Blair didn't even bother to answer, just glared at him like he was seriously considering violence. Maybe he was; Jim couldn't really blame him for it. Blair might've messed with Jim's head -- Jim was still trying to forget how it'd felt to learn the kid was helping another sentinel, a _criminal_ sentinel, which shouldn't even be able to exist -- but he certainly hadn't deserved what he'd gotten. Jim had been hurt, and he'd hurt back, just like his dad had taught him -- facts that weren't going to make Blair feel any better and actually made Jim himself feel a lot worse.

Why'd Blair have to _pace_ like that, anyway? "Do you think you could--"

"No," Blair snapped, stopping anyway, probably not even noticing as he turned on Jim. "I do _not_ think I could. And who says you get to decide, anyway? If I want to pace, I'll pace, damn it, it's called freedom of choice, maybe you've heard the term? Or does that go against some little sentinel rule I haven't figured out yet? Everybody has to do what Jim Ellison says they have to do? Where do you get _off_, man?"

Jim nodded rapidly, leaning forward. This was good. This was well-trodden territory and Jim could almost feel his feet finding familiar ground underneath him. "You've got every right to be mad, Blair," he said encouragingly. Go ahead, kid, he thought. Let me have it.

"Take that back," Blair spat out.

Jim blinked. "I--"

"You think it's that easy to get control of this? Give me _permission_ to be mad? You think I need it? You think I was going to stand here and wait for you to say it was _okay_ for me to be pissed off? Because if that's what you think, man, you are so far outside the boundaries of reason, you're not even in the same atlas."

Wisely, Jim kept his mouth shut. The territory wasn't quite so familiar, after all.

Blair waited for an answer, but looked satisfied when he didn't get one. He started pacing again, anyway, probably not even aware that he was limping, maybe not even aware that he was hurting. Maybe he wasn't hurting, maybe he was just weak, but it looked bad and Jim didn't like it. It made him angry, and he couldn't afford to be angry right now.

Right now, it was Blair's turn.

"It's been this way from the start," Blair said. He didn't even look like he was talking to Jim. He was working it out in his head, but he was doing it out loud; Jim had seen it more than once, and it never ceased to amaze him. It was like hearing the words set things in order in Blair's mind, made it run smoother; he'd start talking faster as he went on, until he was skipping words, not making sense to anybody but himself, and then he'd go find his laptop and he'd type it all in, everything he'd said, from memory.

"I had this fantasy thing going," Blair went on, "where there was this neat little division of labor deal happening between us. All the cop stuff, that was your turf, and you got to be in charge there because it was what you _knew_. And all the sentinel stuff, that was _my_ turf, it was what _I_ knew, so I got to be in charge there. And I had this idea that it was like this unwritten contract between us, equal but different, you know? But I was totally blind, man, I didn't _see_."

"What didn't you see, Blair?" Jim said softly. He thought he knew, but he didn't want to take any chances.

"I only had any say because you gave it to me. Which means, I never had any power in this at all. It was all you. The equality was an illusion, and I never knew it until it got right down to the wire and you showed me."

Jim nodded, slowly. His fingers curled into the cushions on either side of his thighs, forcing the blood out of his hands, making them white.

Blair had it so wrong Jim didn't even know where to start.

* * *

Jim didn't have anything to say to that, not that Blair had expected him to; the man could be a little thick around the edges, but he wasn't stupid and he knew when to keep his mouth shut. He looked pretty upset, and Blair knew it cost him to stay quiet. There was a little part of him that liked that, knowing that for _now_ at any rate things were going the way _he_ said they should go; it was petty, it was immature and it made the tops of his ears feel warm but there it was, he wasn't about to apologize for it. He figured, after all the shit they'd been through in the past few weeks, he had a little credit in the bitching department.

You feel bad, huh? Blair thought at his friend -- still his friend, damn it, until _he_ said different -- You think _you_ feel bad? Try it while you can still remember what it feels like to be a fish.

"Do you want a beer?" Blair demanded abruptly.

"No, I'm fine."

Blair took a deep, calming breath. "I'm happy for you. Do you want to get _me_ a beer?"

Jim's head snapped up as he bought a clue. "Oh. Yeah, sure, just let me--"

"For God's sake." Blair waved him back into his seat and walked into the kitchen. It wasn't like he didn't know where they were, and it wasn't like either of them were about to forget Jim had thrown him out and only let him back in as a guest. He wasn't going to score any points off belaboring the issue. He opened the fridge and stuck his head inside, rummaging around among the condiments that made up roughly ninety-five percent of the inventory. "You sure you don't want one?"

"I'm fine," Jim said again.

Sure you are, Ellison, Blair thought uncharitably. Tell me another.

Armed with a little liquid courage that he probably wasn't even going to drink, Blair went over to the balcony and pretended for a few seconds he cared about the view. What he cared about was setting things right here, getting things back the way they were, but his confidence that he could bring about that outcome was steadily declining. He was losing track of things, of the path to the place he and Jim needed to be, and there was stuff in his head he hadn't expected to find there.

He'd known he was a little ticked off, sure, but he hadn't known he would get so _angry_. It just wasn't an emotion Jim Ellison triggered in him under normal circumstances. Irritation, yeah -- God knew Blair was a _saint_ when it came to repressing irritation with the this guy -- but real, red anger? At _Jim_? It just didn't scan.

"You going to drink that, Chief, or just stand there and bond with it?"

Jim's voice was right behind him, and Blair jumped nearly a foot trying to get away from it. In the process he dropped the bottle, which didn't break, but which did dribble out the entirety of its contents onto Jim's fresh-scrubbed, fresh-waxed hardwood floor. "God _damn_ it!" Blair hissed, heart pounding practically in his throat, "What the hell was that for?"

"I didn't mean--"

"No, you never do." Blair stripped off Megan's jacket and threw it at the couch, then pulled off his flannel shirt and started mopping at the spreading alcohol. "Why do you have to sneak _up_ like that, man?" He was whining, damn it, he _knew_ he was whining, but he couldn't keep the petulance out of his voice and he wasn't all that interested in trying.

"I'm sorry," Jim said.

"Sure you are," Blair said savagely, keeping his eyes on the floor, keeping his mind on the task at hand. "You nearly give me a heart attack, you make me drop my beer, you make me make a huge mess on your floor and you're sorry, that's just great, Jim, you don't know how much... how much that..."

The words weren't coming.

"Blair."

"Howmuchthatmeanstome," Blair said rapidly, scrubbing harder. He was _not_ going to freak out right here in front of Jim, he just _wasn't_. "Makes everything okay, man, wasn't that easy? Now we can just forget anything ever--"

"_I'm_ _sorry_," Jim said again. He pulled gently at Blair's arm, brought him to his feet, and this time Blair didn't say anything, just looked at the beer on the floor and didn't think. "I'm sorry."

"No." Blair shook him off, and backed up. Too close. "No."

"Sandburg -- Blair. You're going to have to help me out here, buddy, because I know you're having a problem here and I don't have a clue how to fix it."

Blair wrapped his arms around himself, and stayed quiet. He didn't know where to start. He felt a kind of kinship with his furniture, leaning against the far wall, out of place. Not where it was supposed to be. But this was his fault, and Jim didn't seem to know, or care; he just wanted to take it all on himself. Jim was always taking it all on himself, that was what got them here, Jim trying to handle everything alone, shoving him away, and him --

Letting it happen. Letting his best friend OD on bad-sentinel-vibes while he added a chapter to his diss: The Female Sentinel, and Why She Scares the Hell Out of Blair Sandburg.

"Don't be sorry, Jim," he said quietly. "I know which of us screwed up first, okay? The only thing I need you to be sorry about is if you let it screw us up for good. I'm not ready to let this go, man, and if you are -- I don't know. If you are, then yeah, I'm pissed as hell. But besides that --" Blair swallowed, tried to calm himself down, but the words kept coming. Coming _fast_, and way harsh, but damn it-- "Besides that, it's just nuts--"

"I'm not --"

" --because what happened with you when Alex was around was pretty fucking terrifying. I don't know why you're not totally freaked out right now. Like, say, for instance, like I am. You and sanity were not sharing a time zone, man, and--"

Jim's hand came down on his shoulder, and something in Blair wanted to shrink away from it and at the same time wanted the comfort so much his chest ached. He wanted it, but he didn't want anybody telling him it would be okay unless it _was_ okay. He wasn't a child, and if it wasn't going to be okay, this wasn't helping, it was just going to make things worse.

"I'm not ready to let it go."

"You have a funny way of showing it, man, cause unless you're invisible you were _not_ haunting the halls of Cascade County General during my recent visit."

"Blair." Jim reached out, and clasped Blair's shoulder firmly. "I'm not letting anything go. Get it? Nothing. Not you, not the sentinel business, not going off the deep end, not _fixing_ that. But especially not _this_." He squeezed, hard; Blair didn't flinch. "Okay?"

"I get it," Blair said gruffly, and tried to shake off Jim's hand.

Jim just gripped harder. "You don't get it," he corrected. He was holding Blair still, but it wasn't anything Blair couldn't have broken away from if he'd wanted. It didn't hurt or anything, but it wasn't exactly compassionate, either. It was the kind of grip that didn't say _I've got you_. It said, _You're not going anywhere._ Oh, yeah, Blair thought, Jim was always good with the body language.

"You don't get it," Jim said again.

And Blair stilled even further, because Jim turned him and there was a pointedly casual, almost disinterested look in his eyes that Blair could see right through. Jim moved and Blair moved and then Jim had hold of him, he wasn't just holding Blair in place. He was holding on like holding on _meant_ something, both arms around Blair's shoulders, strong shocking bands of warmth. It was embarrassing to be hugged by Jim, strange, but it was good, too. It was awkward, didn't feel natural, but it felt like something broken might get repaired by this, like holding the pieces of a broken toy together and waiting for the glue to set. Blair's face was red; he could feel the heat in his cheeks, where the buttons of Jim's shirt cut into him.

He shifted, moved his arms up and around Jim's waist, so tight Jim let out a surprised chuff of air. To hell with breathing -- this was more important than breathing, this was _life_.

"You planning to cuff me now?" he asked eventually, trying to sound like he still had a little wind in his sails. "How much time can a guy get for spilling beer on a cop's floor, anyway?"

"This is what happens when you let a woman raise a boy alone," Jim drawled, Bonanza-style. He pulled back -- but he was grinning. "He grows up snarky."

"I am _not_ snarky," Blair said. He felt weird, skittish; close was good, but he wasn't up for large doses of it, and he didn't think Jim was either. "But thanks for the character analysis, Hoss."

Jim had let go of him except for the one hand on his shoulder -- kind of reluctantly it seemed, but he looked a bit relieved across the space between them. Necessary space, Blair thought, trying to pull in some air. Comfortable space.

"Sorry," Jim said, and grinned, and this time the word was so patently insincere Blair _knew_ he'd meant the earlier apology, just from the contrast.

"Can I move now?"

"I don't know. We weren't doing so great at this talking thing when you were moving around."

"I was pissed off."

"You're still pissed off," Jim observed.

"Yeah, but now I've got beer soaked into my jeans and it's not improving my mood."

Jim let him go. He thought about it for a minute, first; Blair could almost hear Jim weighing his options. It didn't make him mad, though; he felt calmer now, which had been the point of getting the beer in the first place. He just hadn't planned on getting that way by wearing it. He took his time sponging the beer off his jeans, then held the flannel shirt out away from the rest of his clothes.

Jim took it. "I'll throw it in the sink, rinse it out," he said. "Be good as new." Jim Ellison, fashion consultant.

"I wasn't really supposed to drink that anyway," Blair said, compelled to honesty by the weirdness of the moment. "Recovery and all."

"I know," Jim answered, not looking up from his work.

"Man, if you snuck up on me on purpose, I do _not_ want to know about it, okay? I'm mad enough already."

Turning off the water and grabbing a hand towel, Jim turned and leaned against the sink, looking at Blair calmly. "I know you're mad," he said. "And I'm not trying to give you permission, or take control, or anything like that. I'm just saying -- you're right."

"Damn right I'm right."

"I let you down."

"You let -- huh?"

"Alex had to go after you. She knew where my strength was, even when I didn't."

Blair's eyes narrowed. "Alex?"

Jim's head was in the refrigerator -- probably figured out he was going to need that beer after all. His voice was muffled, a little distracted -- nervous, like he was backing off from something. "Tall? Blonde? Nasty habit of killing people on short acquaintance?"

"You think I'm mad because -- what?" Blair paused, and let his voice go soft in spite of himself. "Because you let her kill me?"

Jim stood up abruptly, banging the back of his head on the door to the freezer. He rubbed at what would probably become a bump, a beer dangling forlornly from his left hand. He looked like Blair had knifed him, but he nodded, and Blair frowned, irritated all over again and oddly touched at the same time.

It was _just like_ Jim. All this sorrying and all this creeping around like Blair was about to whack him -- it was guilt all right, but it was guilt over something so mindblowingly irrelevant Blair couldn't even encompass it.

Did he think Simon and Joel and everybody had neglected to tell him what had happened? Did he think they neglected to inform him about the Great Jim Ellison getting his ass kicked by one woman and then having to be yanked from a messy death in an elevator shaft by _another_ woman? The guys had been _drooling_ over themselves with that story, and if Jim thought it had been tough being the Major Crime Resident Hard-ass, he was going to find being the Resident Candy-ass a true revelation.

It would've been nice if Jim could've shown up in the nick of time and preserved the virginity of Blair's lungs, but for Pete's sake, the man had been _occupied_. He'd been up to his ass in trouble and had no idea Blair was next on the bad guys "To do" list. Only Jim Ellison would expect a friend to hold that against him.

Very quietly and very sincerely, Blair said, "Screw Alex."

And watched as Jim's worldview ran headlong into his own.

* * *

"Excuse me?"

Blair shook his head. He didn't look pissed off now; he wasn't pacing, wasn't loud. He just looked tired, and that bothered Jim. Bothered him a lot.

"If -- _if_ you let me down, man, it didn't have anything to do with Alex," Blair said. "We _both_ screwed that up and we had a _lot_ of help from everybody else involved."

Jim shook his head, squinting. "You're losing me here, chief."

"Before that, Jim. You didn't let me down when Alex bought me a round-trip ticket to the spirit world; you just seriously messed with my head before I left." Blair frowned, his eyes hardening. "And scared the hell out of me after I got back. I'm big enough to admit that."

"_After_ \-- Jesus. Blair, _after_, I was getting ready, okay? I didn't bail, I just -- I couldn't be there. I made sure the rest of the guys were, and I checked on you. I called every day."

"You didn't call _me_."

"I called _about_ you."

"Ask me how comforting that was. No, wait, here's a better one. Ask me how much of a _dork_ I felt like when everybody kept _not_ asking where the hell you were!"

"You're mad at me because I made you feel like a dork?"

"I'm mad because you didn't --"

Blair broke off, scowling at the floor, and Jim understood. 'Because you didn't come see me' was tripping all the kid's 'whining' alerts and he couldn't bring himself to say it. Jim was starting to find the floor really interesting himself; he wondered briefly why it hadn't occurred to him to do a little sanding while he had all the furniture downstairs.

"You didn't call me, either," Jim snapped out. He didn't know where it came from.

Blair's mouth dropped open, and his eyes widened comically. Jim met the look, almost as surprised as Blair was. The tension thickened between them, a prickling Jim could feel on the surface of his skin.

And then Blair's lip twitched.

Jim watched the movement and felt something cracking open, or shifting back into place, and he couldn't stop himself. He smiled down at the floor for a minute, then looked up and met Blair's eyes, and found Blair smiling back.

Not just smiling, either, but starting to laugh. Jim's grin widened, and his face felt warm, and then he was laughing himself, at himself -- at the both of them, and how crazy they were.

Two grown men, partners, best friends -- as scared of each other as kids in a haunted house, waiting for monsters to jump out of the shadows. It was funnier than he'd thought at first, funnier because Blair got it too.

Laughing with Blair worked for him. Jim felt weak and out of control and out of breath, but he felt good, too. Very good.

"Oh, man," Blair said, trying to catch his breath. He went to the couch and looked at it, pushed the left side of it back a few inches with his knee, and fell onto the cushions. "We have got to stop."

Jim let himself drop down beside Blair, puffing his cheeks out to release a breath of air. "Any time you're ready, partner," he said, almost like a prayer.

Blair tilted his head back, keeping his eyes closed; Jim did the same, enjoying the basic comfort of muscles relaxing, stretching out. The quiet that got between them this time was a good quiet, strong enough to hold them together.

Jim's mind had just started to wander -- he was thinking about supper, actually, and whether the kid would stick around for it, and whether he could possibly be persuaded to man the grill -- when Blair abruptly called it back.

"You should've come," he said. He didn't sound angry anymore.

"I couldn't," Jim said. "You were right about -- what you said before. I made most of our choices."

"Not all of them," Blair said. Jim smiled, grateful for the honesty. "I bullied you sometimes."

They were going to talk about it now. Jim could do that. He'd been getting ready to do it all week. He turned on the couch, drawing his legs up and leaning forward to rest his arms on his knees. Blair just turned his head toward him, not bothering to lift it from the back of the couch.

More tired than he looked, Jim guessed. Sandburg didn't advertise weakness if he could help it.

"I let you bully me," Jim admitted.

"Yeah. I knew that."

Jim breathed deeply, the way Blair had taught him. Weird that it worked like it did, keeping him calm. "I had to let you."

Blair was already shaking his head. "No," he said. "C'mon, Jim."

"Don't give me that look," Jim said. "I'm not humoring you. You didn't have your life at stake, and I -- can't function without a guide, Blair."

"I know."

Narrowing his eyes, Jim glanced up at his partner. Blair had a half-grin on his face, like he wanted to laugh again but wasn't about to risk it. Jim shook his head, answering the grin in spite of himself. "Then why are you giving me grief over it?"

"Didn't know _you_ knew, man. And if you didn't -- what would be the difference?"

Jim nodded, but he couldn't help but be a little irritated. "I do get these things eventually," he said. "A little faith would've been nice."

"Yeah," Blair answered with a wry look. "Tell me about it."

Jim suddenly found his linked hands very interesting. There wasn't a lot he could say in answer to that.

"It's okay, man," Blair said. "We both had kind of a crisis of trust."

"I should've told you, I was _going_ to tell you, and then things got crazy. _I_ got crazy, threw you out -- it wasn't fair."

"No," Blair said. "But it was understandable."

Jim shook his head. "I didn't even understand it."

"Did you understand me helping Alex? Treating you like a lab rat -- again? Shutting you out?"

"You tried to tell me what was going on."

"Yeah, _once_. Then I bailed on you and went to tell the bitch about dialing stuff down."

"That's different."

"Whoa." Blair rolled his eyes. "The sins of the Great Jim Ellison are stronger, better sins -- totally beyond the realm of mere mortal forgiveness. Jesus, Jim -- you have to be better at _everything_?"

Jim looked at Blair sharply; his glare was met with half of a smile. The anger, so viciously defensive before the fountain and so pallid after, died a little more. How to stay angry at this man? It wasn't possible. Jim looked away, unable to wrap his head around how he felt, unwilling to think about it but knowing, knowing he had to. They had everything but the words and like any oath, it was going to take words to seal it. "That vision thing. Hallucination, whatever."

"Vision. I was there, man."

"I made a choice at the rivers," Jim said simply.

Blair nodded. "I know. I did too. When you didn't come -- I thought you regretted it. It's a big thing."

"It's a commitment."

"Yeah."

Jim pulled off his cap; his fingers toyed aimlessly with the clasp as he leaned forward, forearms propped up on his knees. "I needed the time to make some rules."

He could feel the sharp, abortive movement beside him; he didn't have to look to know Blair's eyes had narrowed, his jaw clenched. "For?"

"For _myself_," Jim clarified. He'd never seen Blair so touchy. "Like--"

"Like you don't make unilateral decisions about our partnership --"

"Friendship," Jim said.

"Both." Blair paused, shook his head. "Neither. That's the 'messing with my head before' part. You cut me out. From now on, you don't get to do that, Jim."

"You think I'm not clear on that?"

"I just have to say it. _I_ have to be clear. You can throw me out of the station, you can throw me out of the loft, hell -- you can even ditch me as your guide if you want. But the rest of it -- being friends -- we share that, we decide that stuff together. You don't get to choose for both of us again."

"We share all of it, Blair. What did you think that -- vision-whatsit -- what did you think that was about?"

"I--

"You watch my back, I watch yours."

"It's not that easy. You're the sentinel here; I'm the guide. You protect the City --"

"And you protect _me_."

Blair shook his head. "It _can't_ be that easy."

"You call any of this _easy_?"

"Considering how hard we tried to wreck things, I think we got off pretty light."

Jim turned his head and looked at Blair, too startled to be really ticked off. The kid was serious, that was the amazing thing. "You're a jerk, Sandburg."

"Yeah," Blair said. One corner of his mouth quirked up. "Part of the job description."

"Incacha was never this annoying." Oh, that was good. That was daring. He knew it was because he couldn't look at Blair when he said it, and because Blair caught his breath and held it and his heartbeat tripped over itself before revving into higher gear.

"Incacha knew he was the relief pitcher."

Blair's voice was casual; Jim knew the tone.

He was using it himself. "Kind of like Bud was?"

Blair nodded. "Yeah."

Then he paused, and Jim knew Blair was going to say something else, and knew he didn't want to hear it, whatever it was. The hair on the back of his arms rose, and the skin between his shoulder blades started to itch. He focused on the coffee table and he could see everything about it, the faint water rings from where Blair forgot to use a coaster, the fine blonde grain beside the dark, the roughness nobody else could see. Scratches from tossing down the remote, snatching it up again, pens that pressed too hard through paper, everything--he wanted to see--wanted to _see_\--

"Or like me," Blair said, and even though they weren't, the words sounded ruthless, pitiless -- final. "if anything should--"

"Don't!" Jim stood up, adrenaline spiking through him, tensing up everywhere.

Fight or flight.

"Don't," he said again, more quietly, just as fierce. He paced in front of the couch, in front of Blair, who was alive, he was the third but he was the one Jim had been waiting for, the one the others had prepared him for. Third time was the charm, right? Had to be.

Had to be.

He stopped right in front of Blair and leaned down, right in his face. The blue eyes were wide, a little shocked. Blair hadn't been expecting this. Jim hadn't either, but they should've been, both of them. It was an important point, and it had to be made.

Had to be.

"You don't leave," Jim said.

And Blair just nodded for a few seconds before noticing he was nodding, and stopped. "Right," he said. His own voice was deep, almost hoarse. The Guide voice in overdrive, the voice of a thousand Guides before him, or more. "I don't leave."

"Good," Jim said. His head jerked down once, then back up. "Good."

Jim sat down again, a little closer to Blair this time. It felt good. Calming. They sat there like statues pretending to be real people, watching the game playing out on screen as if they knew, or even cared, who was winning. Jim was starting to relax and to wonder about the Niner's new kicker when Blair spoke again.

Jim had known it was coming; he didn't let it interfere with his measured breathing.

"You still could've come," Blair said.

The kid was like a dog with a bone.

So typical. Jim felt himself smiling, and put a stop to it immediately. He liked that kind of stubborn, but he didn't need Blair to know that.

"No, I couldn't," Jim said again.

"You keep _saying_ that."

"So stop asking already!"

Blair grinned. Jim shook his head, and relaxed into the back of the couch. The cushions cradled the backs of his legs and fitted against the curve of his back; his muscles ached as the tension eased, a good pain. He rolled his shoulders experimentally, and sighed as tendons creaked. Things really _were_ coming together --

But he still had Blair's key, and Blair still had a ride waiting downstairs.

"Maybe we should invite Simon up," Jim said easily, trying to sound cool about it. "No need for him to sit down in the truck, is there?"

"Yeah," Blair said. "Um. About Simon."

"Yeah?"

The kid wouldn't meet his eyes. "He took off a while ago. I kind of lied."

"Yeah." Jim grinned around the neck of the bottle. He took a deep swallow; the beer was perfect, bitter and cold. "I figured."

Blair smiled at the television, not looking at Jim. The light played oddly over his face, made him look pale. Jim shifted his gaze away; he didn't want to see Blair's face that color.

On the screen, Steve Young dropped back to throw.

"I can give you a lift later," Jim said eventually. "To wherever you're staying. Where _are_ you staying?"

"Oh. Well, did you know they rebuilt the warehouse? I was just driving by and they had this sign up, so I went in. I haven't really had a chance to move in yet, but --"

"Ah." Jim's lips tightened around a protest. He wasn't going to say anything. It wasn't any of his business. Blair could take care of himself. Jim wasn't going to say anything --

"You think they rebuilt the drug lab, too?"

Shaking his head, Blair shot Jim a sour look. "Lightning never strikes twice, man. It'll be okay. I still have some of the old furniture in storage."

"Sandburg, you didn't have any furniture."

Blair's lips pressed together. "I had a really nice coffee table, Jim," he said evenly.

"Ah."

Silence fell between them again, and waiting. After a few moments, Jim had to break it.

"Not the best of neighborhoods."

Jim knew he was needling, and for a moment, he thought he might've cracked the surface. Blair wasn't breaking, though. He kept watching the game, kept his eyes on the TV. "I _liked_ the warehouse," he said calmly. "It was cheap, it had lots of space--"

"You had plenty of space here, right?" Too fast, Ellison, too defensive -- "I mean, before."

"Well, yeah, but... I mean, it's not like I missed it or anything, but that's one of the things you look for in an apartment. When you're looking. You know, space."

Jim nodded, and took another pull from the bottle. There was a small chip in the mouth of it that scratched against his lip.

"I'm sure there are better options," Blair said -- said pretty fast, drumming his fingers on the arm of the sofa. "If I had time to look. It's just that with classes and all--"

"You don't have time."

"Nah, not really. I got a little behind, what with ... you know."

"Drowning and everything," Jim supplied.

Blair's fingers went still. His eyes flicked over, found Jim's. They closed for a moment, and then he was looking at the screen again. "Yeah," he said. "That."

Jim let out a long breath, and backed off. Went another route. "It's a bad idea to rush it this kind of thing," he said carefully. "If you're planning to sign a lease, you could get sucked in for up to a year. You should look around. Take some time."

"Fresh out of that commodity, man."

Jim nodded. Then he shook his head. "Look," he said. Hell with taking things slow. They'd never taken anything slow before, and there was no reason to start now. "Look."

Blair turned, and met Jim's eyes. "What?"

Think about wet towels on the floor. Think about never knowing what's in the tupperware. Think about having to _throw out_ the tupperware because you're afraid of what's in it. "I'm not talking about til death do us part or anything."

He was actually thinking more about the fountain. And how quiet everything had been since.

"Oh, man." Blair had given up the pretense of detachment; he was looking at Jim now, full in the face, and the look was almost raw. "Jim. I couldn't."

"Sure you could. For a few days, I mean. I think it'd be okay. While you look for a new place. You'll have a lot on your plate, with school and the station and --" He paused. Went red, and backtracked. "Sorry."

"What for?"

"I didn't know if you'd want -- I could understand, I mean, if you didn't. It's not like they pay you."

"I'm coming back to the station, Jim. I'm your partner."

Jim nodded, and swallowed hard. "Okay," he said. The walls hadn't been green until Blair painted them that color, to match the plants, he said. He hadn't even asked, just showed up one afternoon with paint and brushes and plastic and handed Jim a brush and said, okay, man, let's go, these walls make me feel like a mental patient.

Blair just kept looking at the TV, like nothing was going on, nothing was coming back into alignment. Jim could hear his breath, though. Blair knew. "A week?" he said.

"Something like that," Jim's voice was rough, rusty; he was smiling, too. "We can talk about it later. After we move your stuff back into your room." Your stuff. Your room. Jim's throat worked soundlessly for a moment, aching.

"One week," Blair said, slowly, like he was trying the words out. He looked over at Jim, locked gazes with him. Blair was smiling crookedly, easily, in that way he had of laughing at somebody and letting them in on the joke all at the same time. "One week, and I'll be out of your hair. I promise."

Jim looked away, back at the set. 14-6, and the 'Niners were losing. Jim reached over to his partner, grabbed his hand, and held on. There was nothing gentle or careful about the grip. When you're drowning, Jim told himself, you hold as tight as you can. "No rush," he said softly.

Blair nodded. Threaded their fingers together. "No rush," he said. "Hey, Jim?"

Jim cleared his throat, pressed his lips together for a second, then relaxed. "Yeah?"

"TV could stand to be a little closer to the couch, don't you think?"

On screen, Young threw to Rice in the end zone. Jim let his head fall back and laughed, hearing both rivers, feeling their convergence. Blair just looked over at him, eyes bright and clear, one corner of his mouth curled up in a smile.

Rice caught the ball and rolled as the clock ran out.

The crowd went wild.


End file.
